Ashes Remain

by Alethea Stauron

  until

  a jingle of keys stops him. “Bingo,” he said, sliding them out between two fingers into the room light. Two keys connect to a ring with a circular paper attached. He flips it, “I know where this street is,” staring at the address. “Alamo Heights? Damn. She got money.” He spins the paper, reading the other side.

  Rental key, written in cursive.

  “It’s a rental house? Sweet cheeks got another property? Wonder if I should go check on her renter for her?” Drake places paperwork back, and closes the rolltop shut before running out with a new set of keys. “Just got my errand for the day.”

  ◆◆◆

  Josephine passes by housing signs with the word SOLD slapped over them. Many designs differ in appearance from porch layout, story size with the optional cliffside balcony. Landscape patterns with recently planted flowers breaking up empty spaces between fresh laid mulch and tiny bushes. Only a few empty lots remain on Neil and Carissa’s hilltop. Several streets are still empty, with partially laid sidewalks, showing rebar and sand. Highway lights are visible down below the hilltops. She pulls up with a loud truck engine purring.

  Carissa peeps through wooden blinds, and soon after, bounces through the door, making a welcome wreath swing against crafted glass. Her head wobbles with a short laugh and a smile, “Your dad’s old truck.” She hugs Josephine, “I miss you more than that old thing.”

  “I miss you too,” Josephine cuts the engine off. “I’m glad y’all drove it around for me. Drake told me it breaks the engine when not using it.” Josephine glances at the driveway, “How y’all liking your new SUV?”

  “I’m stuck with the old maroon car.”

  “You poor thing.” Her eyes scan the fourteen-year-old vehicle over, “Probably won’t be long. That’s his high school car, right?”

  “Well,” Carissa looks at the patina truck, “if this one’s still driving…” duck-billing her lips, “I’ve got a while.”

  Josephine hands Carissa a bulky box with handles, “I didn’t wrap it, and it’s the periwinkle set, like you wanted.”

  “I’m so glad.” Carissa rolls her eyes, “Josephine, I married the most penny-sparing man in Texas.”

  “You wouldn’t think that driving up here. It’s only because you mean the world to him.” She grabs her bag and helps with the remaining plate set boxes, “My dad taught me the world will always have money to give and take, but family lasts forever.” She winks at Carissa, “He’s making his life with you. When he spends money, it’s on you.”

  She sighs, “I wish I could think like that sometimes.” She stops and looks around, “Speaking of which… where’s your boyfriend?”

  “He’s in combat.”

  “You’re talking about, Lucius,” Carissa shakes her head, “That’s not who I’m talking about. The guy at the wedding. Neil spoke with David about him —

  “Eew,” Josephine makes a disgusted face. “Don’t tell Drake I told you this, but he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “I’m so confused right now. Wouldn’t he know,” Carissa lowers her box to her hips at the door. “Are you dating him or not?”

  “It’s complicated, but no. Drake’s just trying to get his life together.”

  “So, you’re not dating?”

  “It’s all kinda difficult to explain what goes on his head, but he tries to act like we’re dating. He does it so he won’t hide in a hole. So, theoretically tonight’s a date. But… actually not a date. More like therapy.”

  “So, you’re dating?”

  “Not quite. We’re pretending for the party,” she studies Carissa’s long face, “Don’t look at me like that. I feel bad for him. I seriously think he’s suicidal or something. This is just for visual aid. He’s not my boyfriend. He knows we’re not dating, but wants to make everyone think he is. Tonight, is only a confidence booster.”

  Carissa’s eyes roll, “You’re too nice to people.” She stops in the foyer and swivels around, “Sometimes people take advantage of you without realizing it, if you give too much. You could be enabling him into depression. Not getting him out of it.”

  “Honestly…” Josephine puts her box on a dark kitchen countertop, “I’m just trying to make him happy this evening…” swaying a guilty hand, “… because I’m asking him to move out after the party. I already decided. I don’t want any confusion like this when Lucius comes back.” She points her hand out sharply, “Just remember… I didn’t say that. Okay? Tonight… we’re quiet about it. Hopefully no one asks. I just need to get through tonight.”

  Carissa winks her eye, “Gotcha. This is your leverage. I won’t say a word. Now it makes sense. David was way off because you’re just a pushover.”

  “I’m not a pushover. And David just misread is all. Drake is very giving.”

  “You want me to ask your boyfriend, but not your boyfriend, slash roommate, about that conversation?”

  Josephine’s eyebrows touch her hairline, “Don’t you dare. Seriously, he’ll leave the party and it’ll be my fault for breaking a promise to him. I won’t be able to ask him to move. If I can lord this one over him, it’ll make it easier on me.” She erects a finger, “It’s one evening. That’s all. He’s getting my drink for me and stuff like that, but Drake’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Hmm, okay.”

  Neil walks up behind them. “Wow. You grew it out long.” He picks up a few strands of Josephine’s corkscrewed ends. “I almost didn’t notice you at the wedding.”

  “You didn’t even speak to me.”

  “You left early,” releasing her hair. He picks up a plate and points it back at her, “Your hair looks good though. I like long-hair curled on the ends like that.” Neil hands Carissa the plate, “This the blue set you were all crazy about? Or purple… whatever.”

  “Periwinkle.” Carissa smiles, “I knew she’d get them for me. She always keeps her word.”

  “I told her I would,” Josephine said. “Periwinkle is her favorite color.” She lifts a curl in her hand, “I guess you haven’t seen it this long before.”

  “I was gonna say, I like the curls.” Neil says, “I try to get her to do that. I guess when you get married, they stop doing the frilly stuff.”

  Carissa places down a handful of plates, “Hey, I was gonna do the frilly stuff. I just haven’t got to it yet.”

  Neil puckers his lips out, “What did I say?” He swings apologetic arms out toward his wife.

  Carissa slaps them away, “No. You don’t get to say sorry, baldy.”

  He plays dramatic, “Did you just see her, Josey,” holding his hand toward Josephine, “She’s so mean to me,” cracking a smile.

  “Don’t turn this on me,” Carissa’s hands stay on her hips. “You’re the offender. I can’t shave my head and be done with it… like you.”

  He wraps around her, “That’s okay,” kissing her neck, “I just love when you make me crazy with your hair is all. I was trying to plant the idea without asking my wife. It backfired.”

  Carissa rolls her eyes, “Well… I’m gonna finish getting ready. Then, you’re gonna go crazy, especially, when you’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

  Neil grabs his backside as if shot, “Not the couch, anything but that?”

  Carissa smirks.

  Neil rocks against his wife and sways her like a dance, “That came back to me sevenfold,” whispered in her ear. “Will you forgive me for being a dude, and not knowing what makes you tick?” He kisses her neckline, “You’re the most gorgeous woman in the world to me.” He raises his head and smiles with a deep country twang, “I want you to have my babies.”

  “My goodness,” Carissa giggles, “Stop being so silly in front of company. I forgive you now.” Josephine is escorted with a wave of Carissa’s hand, “Come on. Let me show you around. Help me with my hair while he gets the fire started outside.” Carissa points toward her husband, “This man demands that his wife look hot in front of your guy-friend.”

  Neil raises his brows, “Hey!
I don’t wanna kick somebody’s —

  “As… I was saying,” Carissa interrupts, “I’ve gotta look good for my man.” She winked.

  Drake cruises his clunker through mature residential lanes. “I know it’s one of these.” Finally, he spots the street name from the key. He shifts gears, keeping his eyes on the even addresses to his right. “There it is,” admiring Spanish-style spindles, and arched decorating upstairs windows. He parks a couple houses down in the shade of an overgrown, dark oak tree.

  A blue van with one Christian bumper magnet rests modestly in the center of the driveway. There’s a wild magnolia tree stretching over a small portion of yard. Cobblestone bricks outline the property, with several stacked out of place from children next-door, leaving sidewalk chalk symbols over part of them. The lawn maintenance sign from next-door, advertises a picky homeowner’s recent treatment. “Stupid rich people,” he scowls, “They care more about their worthless grass.”

  He puckers his brow at the yard’s given choice for furniture, a brightly painted turquoise picnic table out front beneath a hummingbird feeder. His head trembles with agitation, “I guess if I had money, I’d wanna sit outside and watch people gawk at me too.”

  Two antique, oversized windows towers high with no lines separating a single pane. The glass is designed to astound onlookers by the thirteen-foot ceilings of the first floor on the other side, having nothing more than a thin window sheer showing a hint of restraint in gaudiness. He tries, but can’t make out much through the polished windows, glinting evening sun through trees, glossing a reflective green tone from the leaves next-door.

  Drake has waited twenty-five minutes with no sign of movement. “I guess no one’s home.” He releases his car door, eyeing other houses across the street. “I’ll just take a look and see.” He pans toward the two-story with a flicker of caution, taking two steps back. A light down the hall flips on pass the window glimmer, allowing Drake observation of elevated white walls and glossy wood of a half spiraling staircase. A figure of a silver-haired man walks around with a phone to his ear, piling books neatly on a table.

  Drake slides into his front seat, pulling his door not quite shut. He readjusts his body, tilting his cowboy hat sideways, hiding where he stares if anyone from behind is watching. Drake holds his phone to his ear, as if talking and keeping suspicion down.

  A few more minutes, and the front door opens. The silver-haired man walks over the threshold with a faint smile lifting his cheeks. He balances a bundle of belongings draped over his arm. Carefully folded over a canvas bag and carries an off-white Alb hanging gingerly without touching the ground. The Alb overlays a black and ivory sash, as if carrying a loved one’s ashes to his van.

  Drake rubs his chin, sliding lower in his chair, noticing whose house he’s at. “The priest from the wedding? She own the whole damn town or some’n?” The van backs out, one taillight noticeably dimmer than the other. “Why’s he got such a crappy car, if he so rich,” sneering at the disappearing vehicle down the road. “Whatcha wasting your money on, priestly dude?” Drake shifts his car into gear and drives over fractured cement of Bishop Jones’s driveway, “Let’s find out.”

  He tours passed the side of the house, under a short wooden awning. He uses his senses to scour out every movement and detail of the property along with any windows nearby. The driveway gives two choices pass the back corner of the house. Straight leads to a workshop thirty-five feet from the back door, and left is where grass has taken over a pebbled drive. Barely any driveway pebbles lie visible against an old, rusty trampoline. Drake turns the wheel, inching himself into park. His car stops but keeps it running.

  A quick getaway if needed.

  He grabs a billed-cap with a nearby business name on it, and lays his cowboy hat in the passenger seat. He crams an old shirt into a box, mislabeling the address with heavy ink and sloppy handwriting.

  Drake hides his gazing beneath the bill of his cap, eyeballing corners, looking into every nook before exiting his vehicle. “No cameras…” glancing back at an open-fenced yard, “… and no dogs either.”

  His feet glide across grass overrun gravel, making little sounds of him being there. Closer to the back door, he examines and finds no paw prints made by mud or even old scratches. “I bet he don’t even own a cat.”

  His box jostles in his hands and knocks briefly, waiting forty-five seconds for any growls. No barking. No movement. Again, a quick knock followed by a short wait.

  Not anything.

  A dog at a nearby yard starts barking at a jogger on the street over, Drake places his ear to the door and hears the refrigerator kick on. He places down his box and glances back quickly with a pretend scratch of his nose against his shoulder. His fingers press into denim pockets and grabs one of the keys, holding a rejoicing smile at bay, and turns his wrist with the key inside the lock.

  Click

  Drake pokes his head through, “Hello?” His eyes race across every point. “Hello? Your door was open.” He walks in, leaving the door slightly cracked. He uses a deep maintenance voice, “Hello? I have to check your water heater.”

  Not even an echo.

  He immediately explores, checking the downstairs first for anything of value he can carry. A large television hangs high over the mantle with a bat winged antenna dangling from behind it. Not a trophy piece for sure. “Piece of crap,” he said, recognizing furniture either too old, or too big to handle. Not what he was expecting from the grandiose first impressions outside, given the neighborhood it sits in.

  His head spirals around, wanting anything to catch his attention. The shine and glimmer from outside fall solely on the high-gloss paint and wood finishes left by his landlord. Glass tops, carefully polished, rest over cabinets and tables. Every piece is either handmade by repairs or costs a widow’s mite in comparison to the demographics of the location. Damaged or outdated surfaces are draped by colorful plastic plants, candles, or inspirational literature to keep others from judging. Quaint to the naked eye. Humble for the weary traveler. Or whatever a minister can manage on a survival salary.

  “This’s bullsh …” he moves with the side of his foot, striding toward the stairs. He pops over the top step, tiptoeing over hardwood floors, panting for breath. “Hello? I have to check your water heater. Is anyone here?” He looks through every open door and gallops into the largest bedroom, scanning his eyes over surfaces. Finally, he halts. His nostrils flare and eyes bulge.

  A large dresser with an oversized mirror welcomes hungry eyes with a prize-winning appetite. His lips tighten, “There you are,” he exhaled.

  Atop the center of the dresser, lies a guarded wooden chest. The chest beloved by only those who know its contents. The wood is plain, held together by copper brads pressed in place by hand tools. Fastened through wrought iron lining with an ancient hammer. An ancient hammer long since gone. The copper has tarnished over the centuries, resembling a delicate green chalk, outlining Latin inscriptions in the shape of a Celtic cross. Every groove and woodgrain coated with an ageless layer of carbon dust, never to be determined by the weighted thoughts of an archaeologists in a lab. Bishop Jones’s most prized responsibility and considers an honor to guard. There is no luster in its appearance. Only in its history, except, for insatiable hungry eyes. A kind of bottomless hunger. An infinite pit. Those eyes.

  His hands stretch glee across the chest and lifts the lid. Satin welcomes him further. He removes the material and looks under the corner of the antique, hand-embroidered satin napkin. The wrap quickly goes missing on the floor, and gold sparkles into his eyes.

  He unravels every precisely placed cloth. And throws it down onto a growing pile, as if ancient Gaelic inscription meant nothing. As if the ancient words passed down through the generations were always meaningless. He tossed the linen on the floor to grab what he wanted. The golden chalices gleaming back at him.

  Goblets. Two of them. Quickly uncovered and gawked at. Jewel encrusted pattern etched with a delicate filigree
line to resemble a Celtic cross. Patterns so intricate that years of study couldn’t reveal the true hidden message. Only those who have been chosen by a high order are entrusted with such an honor. Each goblet is handcrafted by early goldsmiths during a time it was illegal to have such treasure. Only now to be picked up and stuffed into a shirt like deodorant on a hot Sunday.

  He drops the lid, letting it slam on its own and loosening soil through aged channels. A smaller box catches his attention. One not so elaborate, but still personal and important to the priest. The only personal treasures Bishop Jones has left.

  Drake opens the gray velvet box, revealing what has been gathered over the years by Bishop Jones and his late-wife. Drake holds up a gold watch with diamond incrusted minute and hour hands. Beneath it, Bishop Jones’s only cufflinks he’s ever owned. Given to him by his late-wife on their anniversary, nine months before her death to cancer.

  Bishop Jones swore he’d never love again, wearing those diamond cufflinks every Sunday beneath his robe. Like carrying a piece of her with him. Beside the cufflinks, a ruby tie clip given to him by his only son on Father’s Day.

  Drake shoves the small items into his pocket and holds the golden communion cups under his arms. His feet jet downstairs like thunder rolling in dark clouds. But he sees one more thing. Nothing of any value, even parishioners throw it away. Drake glowers down toward a neatly piled stack of paper over a cheap glass table. Written on the first line of the booklets:

  Easter Sunday Service

  followed by a smaller font on the second line:

  Arise Sleeping Children

  He shouts, “Stupid faith books!”

  The wooden table leg is kicked in half, sending a small stack of Bibles and bulletins toppling over each other into a scattered and molested pile on the ground. The glass top shatters in several pieces. Drake’s feet kick a few pamphlets with newly crinkled edges across the floor, sliding them underneath furniture. He picks up his box at the back door and slips in his car. Less than ten seconds later, he cruises out of Alamo Heights at a steady speed limit.